Amos Renly's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Amos Renly wanted to feed a whole village, and he could not bake a single loaf. He stood in his small kitchen at the edge of the woods, where he had come six months ago to open a bakery. His hearth was too small. The flames burned hot and fast, then died. Two blackened loaves sat on the sill, hard as river stones. His grey cat watched from the warm bricks, tail curled, unbothered by failure. He had dreamed of a shop that pulled the village in with the smell of bread. Instead, he had crumbs and a cold morning. His cottage was charming, with mossy beams and warm windows, but charm did not bake. Amos pressed his floury hands flat on the table and made himself think. He needed an oven that held its heat. A real brick oven would take weeks and coin he did not have. He had neither. His rabbit thumped across the floor, patchy grey fur catching the light, and nosed at a pile of red clay by the door. Amos had dug the clay from the creek bank last week, meaning to patch the chimney. Then he saw it. Clay held heat. The old bakers knew this long before brick. He could shape an oven himself, by hand, right now. He carried the clay outside and set to work. He wet it, kneaded it, and built a round base. He raised the walls into a dome, leaving a low arched mouth at the front. His arms ached. The rabbit sat in the grass and watched. By afternoon a rough beehive shape stood curing in the sun, its surface cracked and uneven but whole. Amos lit a small fire inside and fed it slowly. He would not rush it this time. The clay drank the heat and held it. He waited until the walls glowed, then raked the coals aside and slid in a fresh loaf of dough. He sat on the step while it baked. The cat joined him. For once Amos did not fill the silence. He just watched the little arched mouth and breathed. When he pulled the loaf out, the crust was gold and the center sang when he tapped it. He broke it open. Steam rose. It was good. It was better than good. For the first time, he had bread worth sharing. Amos looked past his crooked oven toward the thin path that led to the village. He had enough now. He could bake a dozen loaves, maybe more. But no one there knew his name. No one knew why an old man had come alone to the edge of the woods, and no one had yet come to find out. He wrapped a warm loaf in cloth. If the village would not come to him, he would carry the first loaf to them. Tomorrow he would walk the path and knock on a stranger's door.